


so let's be sinners to be saints

by lilithqueen



Category: Obsidian and Blood - Aliette de Bodard
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Transformation, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Temporary Animal Transformation, Unwilling Transformation, scorpions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Legend says that the first scorpion was once a priest who broke his vow of chastity. Of course, that's not something Acatl has to worry aboutnow,right?...Right? Surely he can have one night with his lover without waking up in a body not his own.Unfortunately, the gods have a very mean sense of humor.
Relationships: Acatl/Teomitl (Obsidian and Blood)





	so let's be sinners to be saints

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OFF this is an actual myth! I did not make this up! it was apparently first written down in "Treatise on the Heathen Superstitions That Today Live Among the Indians Native to this New Spain, 1629" by Hernando Ruiz de Alarcón and i cannot find an ebook copy ANYWHERE, but google books was here for me in my hour of need. i found out about it in a twitter thread & went "itsfreerealestate.jpg"
> 
> title: [sinners - lauren aquilina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyMal7io41s)

On something like a high ridge, a beautiful young man was resting and taking in the view. He was dressed as a prince in a headdress of golden flowers and a butterfly nose ornament; when he moved, the air around him shimmered with light. At his elbow was a golden bowl of popcorn, from which he took the occasional handful. An ancient coyote reclined by his feet, either sleeping or dead. He prodded it lightly with a gold-sandaled foot; irritated, it kicked a back leg at him. Sleeping, then.

He turned his gaze back to the expanse below him. “Xochiquetzal is still furious, you know. She hates being slighted.”

The coyote whined a question.

The young man smirked, his carefree gaze turning cruel. “Why, she tried to seduce Mictlantecuhtli’s High Priest! And lost, of course. The man’s a stone; did he not shed blood in our service, I would question whether he had any. Foolish woman, to think she could tempt him to break his vows.”

The coyote rose and shook itself, narrowing its rheumy eyes to squint out at the world below them. After a moment, it let out a little _whuff_ of amusement.

“ _...Really.”_ He turned a speculative glance down at a small house in Tenochtitlan, its high rank marked only by a second story. “You think so?”

It nodded, tail thumping on the ground and raising puffs of glittering dust.

“Hmm. It would explain a lot—and oh, how it would make Xochiquetzal _wroth_ to learn who claims him on their mat.” For a long moment he studied the house below—and then he started to smile, terrible as a gloating jaguar. “I think I’ll take that wager. Fine, Old Coyote—do what you will to him, and we’ll see whether his lover comes to me or to my _beloved_ consort.”

The coyote sprang up on its hind feet to execute a shaky pirouette, cackling with laughter, before dropping back down to all fours and speeding away.

& &

In Acatl’s house, there was only moonlight. Teomitl had wanted to light a torch or two—he’d breathed _I want to see you, Acatl,_ and Acatl had nearly given in—but the last thing either of them needed was anything that would draw attention to the house and what they were doing inside. Acatl had started to regret that decision almost immediately, but getting up to start a fire would mean stopping what they were doing, which was plainly not an option in any sane world. They’d shed their cloaks and sandals as soon as they’d gotten in the door, and Teomitl was fumbling with his loincloth one-handed while the other ran restlessly over Acatl’s chest.

Acatl was not helping. Teomitl was straddling him, which meant his thighs were _right there_ and entirely too tempting to ignore. He slid his palms over lean muscle purely to feel him shiver; what the silvery light hid, his touch revealed. He _liked_ that. Almost accidentally, Acatl let his thumbnail graze the curve of a hipbone. “Mmm, you are lovely.”

“And _you_ are a _bastard,”_ Teomitl huffed as he finally tossed his loincloth behind him—by the soft _fwumph,_ it landed on his discarded cloak—and pressed Acatl back down onto the mat, taking a searing kiss that had him arching breathlessly before his lover finally pulled away to breathe, “Good thing I love you anyway.”

No matter how many times he heard that, he still had to close his eyes as the enormity of Teomitl’s affections hit him again. After all they’d done, all they’d been through, Teomitl _loved_ him. _Duality, I don’t deserve this._ All he could do in response was pull him closer, feeling the hot press of Teomitl’s cock against his still-regrettably-clothed hip. He’d been half-hard himself since the first hungry kiss they’d shared that evening, and feeling Teomitl’s own arousal was a delicious reminder of all the other things they could be doing with their night. “Do you?”

“You doubt me?” Teomitl propped himself up on his elbows, head tilted suspiciously; Acatl swore he could _hear_ his frown.

Feeling bold, he gave Teomitl’s ass a lingering squeeze. “I’m still dressed.”

And then Teomitl’s hands were in his hair, pulling his head back, and teeth nipped sharply at his exposed throat. He made an incoherent noise, toes curling at the mix of pleasure and pain that sparked over sensitive skin. _More of that_ , he wanted to say, but speech required entirely too much coordination; even when Teomitl’s hands slid back down his body, unceasing in their new quest to get his loincloth out of the way, he could only tremble and pant roughly as Teomitl sucked bruises along his neck that he absolutely wasn’t going to be able to hide. _Discreet. We’re supposed be being—_ But then he was exposed, the air cool on his hard flesh, and before he could think about it he ground his hips against Teomitl’s thigh with a whine.

Teomitl lifted his mouth from his collarbone, voice rough. “What do you want me to do?”

 _What do I…?_ There was only one answer, something he’d thought about before they’d even kissed and with increasing frequency since then. He took a slow breath and tried to marshal his thoughts, calming the little flutter of embarrassment below his ribcage; no matter how much he’d dreamed about it, actually saying it still made his face burn. “...Make love to me.”

Teomitl stilled, one calloused palm resting lightly at his hip. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but Acatl suspected he was blushing. It made him want to kiss him senseless. “Acatl,” he murmured, “Are you sure…?”

Acatl couldn’t help but smile, scratching lightly down his spine in a way he knew would make his lover shiver. “I’ve never known you to hesitate before.”

And Teomitl _did_ shiver, but then he was drawing away and resettling himself to kneel between Acatl’s spread legs, still so close that their cocks slid against each others in an agony of not enough friction. He sucked in a hard breath and almost missed Teomitl’s soft reply. “Your vows _are_ important to you.”

For a too-long heartbeat, all he could do was breathe. He’d vowed to be chaste all his life, but he’d made that vow when he was young and stupid and hadn’t met Teomitl yet, hadn’t known that lust could rise in him like a flame at the touch of a hand or a sweet, teasing grin. He’d spent enough nights pondering the depth of his own desires to be sure of them now, no matter what happened. Half-forgotten myths and cautionary tales were not going to stop him. If Lord Death himself stormed up from Mictlan and turned him to dust on the spot, he’d figure out some way to make it work as a shade. He pushed himself up on one elbow and met Teomitl’s eyes, reaching out to cup his jaw. “If the gods punish me, at least let me have this first. Please?”

Teomitl closed his eyes; when he opened them again, there was an excitingly wicked light in them. “You don’t need to beg.” He paused, grinning. “But you can, if you’d like.”

“I’m not going to—“ But then a hand was being wrapped around his cock, and he broke off with a gasp. _“Oh.”_ It was _very_ different from his own, stronger and broader, and as Teomitl stroked him to full hardness he found himself instinctively rocking into it.

“Gods,” Teomitl whispered, “I really wish you could see yourself now, Acatl. You’re beautiful.”

 _Flatterer,_ he wanted to say. What came out instead was a growl of _“Now_ who’s the bastard?” Teomitl’s hand was relentless, thumb working over the head of his cock in a way that was absolutely maddening, just on the edge of _too much_ and _not enough._ If it was intended to rile him up, it was working.

Teomitl chuckled, caressing his hip. His voice turned almost sly as he looked him over, gaze taking on a possessive air. “I thought you were the patient one. Are you so eager to be taken already, Acatl-tzin?”

Acatl swallowed. Once Teomitl had learned that he rather liked being addressed like that during their intimacies—to be fair, it had come as something of a surprise to Acatl, too—he’d shown unerring instincts regarding when to deploy it for maximum effect. It would have made him flush on its own; with Teomitl’s voice a heated purr and his hand on his cock, it felt like it was lighting his skin on fire. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears. “Teomitl. You have _no idea_ how long I’ve waited for this.” _Since we stood on the temple steps together, since I saw you in the setting sun gilded like an emperor and knew that I loved you..._

He was gratified to see Teomitl’s eyes widen slightly before he sent his gaze darting around the room. “We need...oil. Grease. Something. It will hurt otherwise and I don’t ever want to hurt you—“

“In the chest—one moment—ah, let go, I need to reach—” There was just no dignified way to scrabble one-handed through the nearest open chest and pull out the jar that had been hiding in there for two weeks, but it was worth it for the way Teomitl audibly drew in a breath when it was in his own hands. He found himself regretting the veto on torches again.

He expected to be breached. He didn’t expect Teomitl’s hand sliding up his inner thigh in a warm, _slick_ caress, pulling out a shaky moan. Instinct told him to press his knees together, but he forced himself to relax. Teomitl’s other hand had found his own, interlacing their fingers tightly. “Have you done this before?”

He breathed out slowly. “To—to myself. A few times. Never with someone else.” There weren’t any vows prohibiting _that_ , and if he’d spent most of those times imagining it was Teomitl instead of his own hand it certainly wasn’t Lord Death’s business.

Fingers slid over his balls and then behind them, smearing oil as they went; when Teomitl breathed, “Gods, you had better let me _watch_ next time,” a shameful whimper of pure arousal escaped before he could even think to muffle it. It wasn’t something he’d considered before, but the idea of putting on a show for Teomitl—Teomitl, who was even now tracing his hole slowly with a single finger and sending little tremors up his spine—was apparently _very_ exciting to whichever part of his mind decided such things.

“I—“ That finger slid in, and his grip on Teomitl’s hand reflexively tightened. Whatever he was going to say evaporated from his mind. _“Gods.”_ It was entirely different from doing it to himself; for a moment it just felt strange, but then he breathed out and relaxed and that was better, he could work with that. Teomitl worked him slowly, when he brushed the spot that sent sparks through his veins, Acatl arched encouragingly. “Nnh—there…”

Teomitl leaned over him, grabbing a fistful of loose hair and bracing himself on the mat; Acatl mourned the loss of the hand in his, but it was worth it for the way Teomitl started to open him up in earnest, the stretch of an additional finger alongside the first making his legs tremble. His lover’s voice was a breathless sort of rasp. “This...won’t be enough. Don’t want to break you.”

He sucked in air. _Break me._ He imagined Teomitl’s cock in him, splitting him open, filling him, _wrecking_ him. He bucked his hips hard, trying to get those fingers in him deeper. It was starting to ache, but it still wouldn’t be enough. “Teomitl—please—“

More oil drizzled down, enough that when Teomitl moved his fingers Acatl could actually _hear_ how slick his own flesh sounded. While he shuddered, rocking into his hand, Teomitl whispered, “How’s that?”

It took him a moment to remember how words worked. “Nnh...more?”

A third finger slid in, and he gasped and clenched around it. _Now_ it was starting to burn, the stretch an entirely different sort of pain than he was accustomed to—but then Teomitl did something with his fingers, or maybe his wrist, and he saw stars. Breath hissed out of him in an explosive _“Fuck,”_ but before Teomitl could think to stop he hastened to add, “Keep going.” _If you stop,_ he thought, _I might actually die._

Teomitl kept going. Acatl swore he could feel himself being reshaped around those fingers, each slide past that one spot building the sparks along his nerves into an inferno. He knew he was the furthest thing from quiet—each thrust was pulling increasingly eager whimpers from his throat—and yet he couldn’t seem to stop. “Please—Teomitl, just _fuck_ me!”

“Nnh.”

Teomitl pulled his fingers out. Acatl keened, but before he could do more than register the emptiness of his own body Teomitl was lining himself up and _finally_ sliding in. All he could think for a long moment was _oh gods;_ Teomitl had stretched him but it was nothing compared to the stone-hard heat of his cock opening him up more than he’d ever thought possible. He’d never been stuffed so full in his life and for a dizzying moment he wasn’t sure it would fit; he clawed at Teomitl’s shoulder, feeling him shudder, feeling that cock actually pulse _inside_ him, and registered that he finally knew why disgraced ex-maidens spoke of being ruined. This really was going to wreck him.

His lover held himself perfectly still, panting into his ear. _“Acatl.”_

In his name, Acatl heard a wealth of questions— _are you alright, can I move._ Shakily, he nodded and shifted his hips, a careful roll that turned the pressure of Teomitl’s cock from overwhelming to intoxicating. Teomitl blew out a breath and started to thrust shallowly in response, which felt fine but wasn’t _enough._ Acatl barely recognized his own voice when he gritted out, “Deeper.”

“ _Fuck.”_ Teomitl shifted his weight, drawing back; Acatl didn’t even have time to be confused before he was surging forward again, grabbing Acatl’s hip to hoist one leg up to rest on his shoulder and _oh,_ that opened him up wider and gave Teomitl room to fuck him _properly._ He’d asked for it deeper; Teomitl seemed to read his mind and gave it to him faster and harder as well, each thrust reducing Acatl’s mind to jelly. All he could do was rake his nails down Teomitl’s back and hang on, barely hearing the crackling of the reed mat under them over his own punched-out gasps. Teomitl was more talkative or at least more capable of stringing sounds together; his voice was a near-savage snarl against Acatl’s shoulder. “Fuck, you’re—Acatl, I love you, you are _perfect—“_

It was the sort of base flattery he’d normally at least try to refute, but such was utterly beyond him now; his lover’s cock had driven out any thoughts that weren’t _more_ and _harder_ and _Teomitl._ Even his usual hesitation was gone; while his mind was empty, his hips had no problem bucking frantically to urge Teomitl on. When Teomitl’s teeth scraped over his skin during a particularly rough thrust, he dug his fingers into his spine with a strangled cry.

Teomitl was trembling; he’d wrapped a fistful of Acatl’s hair around the hand holding himself up, and now he tugged hard enough to hurt a little when Acatl dared lift his head to steal a messy kiss. “I’m not going to—“ His voice cracked halfway through, and Acatl knew he was close.

Through some incredible act of coordination, he managed to reach a hand between them and wrap it around his own cock, thinking at the very least they could come together, but then Teomitl’s hand was there too and he was snapping his hips in quick, ferocious thrusts and it was all too much. Acatl’s release hit him in a wave that turned his world to a single spasming point of white-hot pleasure; he was dimly aware that he was raking his nails down Teomitl’s back hard enough to draw blood, but with his jaw clamped shut around a scream it was the only outlet left. And then Teomitl was coming too, teeth in Acatl’s shoulder a sting he didn’t even feel next to the pulsing of that hot, hard cock spilling into him.

Acatl couldn’t think. His mind was entirely, blissfully blank. Even when Teomitl softened and pulled out, drawing an entirely reflexive shudder at the overstimulation, he could only blink up at the hidden darkness of the ceiling. Other sensations filtered in slowly; there was Teomitl carefully unbending that one leg, there was Teomitl running his fingers through his hair. He was sweaty and sticky and sore, eyelids suddenly heavy. “Hmm...”

Teomitl rolled off him; Acatl felt him settle on his side and press a kiss to his mouth. Acatl returned it as best he could, feeling drained. When Teomitl spoke, his voice was hushed. “Mmm. Acatl, that was…”

He found his voice. It was easier with Teomitl touching him, one hand resting on his chest like a promise. “Wonderful?”

His lover chuckled, bumping their noses together. He could hear the smile in his voice. “Mm-hmm. How do you feel?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a cloth from somewhere and started cleaning them both up, touch impossibly gentle.

Acatl considered the question. His spine felt like liquid, and he still wasn’t entirely sure he could move his legs yet. He knew without a doubt that he’d be sore tomorrow, with marks on his throat and hips and shoulders, but it would be a pleasant and well-earned ache. _I thought I’d feel different. Changed, somehow. Instead I’m just...a man. A man who’s taken his lover to bed. Or...been taken, I suppose._ “Tired. Happy, but...tired.”

“So am I.” Indeed, Teomitl’s face was twisting in the manner of someone forcibly suppressing a yawn as he spoke. “Acatl, I...I don’t want to go back to the Duality House tonight. Can I…?”

Discretion was paramount. Mihmatini was on their side, but if Tizoc or any of his men found out, Acatl knew he wouldn’t hesitate to have them both killed. If Acatl was a wise man, he would be throwing Teomitl out already. But he imagined Teomitl in the dawn light, hair sticking up every which way and eyes hazy with sleep as he breathed his name, and what came out of his mouth instead was “Please.” _Stay tonight. Stay forever._

Teomitl sighed, nestling against him, and it sent a sudden pang through his heart; before he could stop himself, he found himself asking, “Will you be here when I wake?”

Teomitl snorted, breath stirring his hair. “As if I would ever leave you.”

Thus warmed from within, he drifted off to sleep.

&

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

His skin felt too tight and too cold, and though he knew it was still dark out, the room was bright as day and sparkling around the edges. It took a moment for his vision to focus properly; when it did, he realized that the black thing blocking most of his view was an enormous scorpion’s claw. His limbs twitched. So did the claw. So did the long arc of a venom-tipped tail above him.

He thought he probably should be screaming, if only inside his own head. He thought he probably _would_ be screaming, if he hadn’t had knowledge of the gods’ favorite punishments all but beaten into him at the calmecac. _And I told Teomitl it’s never actually happened._ A sudden icy spike of fear flashed through him; while he tried to force himself to remain calm, his legs had entirely different ideas and carried him off the mat and into a corner he only recognized by the presence of two walls and much more dust than he’d remembered. Corners were _safe._ He would think better here.

Breathing felt downright bizarre, but it still helped just as much as it always did. _Focus. I need to focus._ He could still feel, past the panic, the stretched emptiness of Mictlan running through his veins; Teomitl, asleep on his half of the mat, was much larger in proportion to what he supposed was his decreased size but still shone the same jade-green-and-gold through his priest senses. The gods had not abandoned him, then, and so this was unlikely to have been their will. Mandibles clattered together in what he supposed was the scorpion equivalent of a man biting his lip. It was _possible_ that it had been some sort of sorcerer with a grudge, but he really couldn’t think of any that had escaped his justice recently. Quenami might hate him that much, but he was sure the man lacked the means for such a spell. _Not to mention the sense of humor. Whoever did this...knew, somehow, what I was up to tonight. I’m sure of it._

Teomitl was stirring. Acatl froze as his lover rolled over onto his stomach and blindly reached across the mat, making a disgruntled little snuffling noise when his hand encountered only empty air. “Mmf.” One eye cracked open; seeing that he was alone, he sat up and scratched roughly at his scalp. It ruffled up his hair even more than sleep had, and the corner of Acatl’s heart not currently locked in terror melted at the sight.

“Acatl? Where are—“ Teomitl’s gaze fell on him, face twisting. “By the _gods,_ ” he muttered, before calling out, “Acatl, there’s a scorpion the size of a damned _dog_ in here; where do you keep your knives again?”

It would have been wonderful, Acatl reflected, if whatever transformation had come upon him had left him the ability to speak. Since no configuration of mandibles and pedipalps seemed to be producing sound, he settled for scuttling closer and waving one claw in what he hoped desperately was a motion unusual enough to stay Teomitl’s hand. He’d seen Teomitl throw knives before, and he was _very_ good at it.

Teomitl went still, one hand on the carved-bone chest that held Acatl’s knives. His eyes widened in something like fear as Acatl approached, only to be drained and refilled by bleak horror. Slowly, without taking his eyes off him, he crumpled to his knees. “...A scorpion...with...your day sign on its back...” For a horrible moment, Acatl thought he was about to burst into tears. When he managed to speak again, his voice was a barely audible whisper. “Acatl?”

 _At least whatever caused this had the decency to label me for safekeeping._ He clicked his pincers together; evidently it was understandable as an affirmation, because Teomitl’s hand went to his mouth and he looked like he might be sick.

Teomitl was silent for a long while, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him. Though he was clearly trying to maintain some form of dignity, Acatl realized that the faint rattling he heard came from his earrings as he trembled, and not even hugging himself tightly enough to turn his knuckles white was helping. All at once, the fear he felt for himself was replaced by rage—rage that such a thing had _dared_ happen, that it had upset Teomitl during what should have been such a wonderful night, that now Acatl couldn’t even hold him through it. Before he could rush forward—to do _what_ , he wasn’t sure—Teomitl’s gaze fell on him again. He was starting to look angry, which at least was better than misery. “I don’t—I don’t _understand._ How did this happen? We—you were fine earlier, weren’t you?”

Ah. He supposed Teomitl’s education hadn’t covered that story. It took some doing to figure out where he was heading—his house looked very different a few inches away from the floor—but then he managed to scrabble across the room to the wicker chest that held his codices. His new lack of thumbs briefly stymied him, but Teomitl was right behind him to open the lid, leaving Acatl to fidget with his fangs while he searched. It took long enough that he idly began to experiment, lifting first one pair of legs and then the next. He tried flexing his tail, finding that it took the merest thought to have it touching the ground in front of him. _Well,_ he thought, _at least I’m not a spider._

And then Teomitl’s legs folded under him. The earth under Acatl’s clawed feet shook as he hit the floor, staring blankly at the codex he now held. Acatl didn’t need to look to know what was on it—the priest Yappan, transformed into the first scorpion for laying with Xochiquetzal and thus breaking his vows.

He looked bleak. “This is my doing, isn’t it? The gods’ punishment on you for what we did—Acatl, I’m so sorry.”

Acatl had a sudden, profound urge to sting him. He settled for scuttling forward and pinching his knee hard, tail waving furiously above him. _Don’t you dare apologize. Not for this._

Teomitl flinched, but rallied with a savage glare. “But I—“

Acatl pinched him again. This time he winced, rubbing the welt left behind, and had the grace to look sheepish. “Alright, you don’t like me saying that. But what else could it be? I’m sure if there was a sorcerer who could do _this,_ we would have heard of a good deal more mysterious disappearances by now. Tizoc would make a _wonderful_ scorpion.” His gaze drifted over the discarded codices in the chest, brow furrowed in thought. “...Is your connection to the underworld still…”

He clattered his claws together, hoping Teomitl wouldn’t ask him to prove it. He wasn’t sure what it would do in this new body. _I’m still here._ He wanted to say _I love you,_ wanted to tell him _This isn’t your fault._ All he could manage was a clicking of his mandibles.

Teomitl frowned, catching his lower lip between his teeth. His obsidian lip plug, a small thing with a jaguar’s face Mihmatini had gotten him for his last birthday, gleamed in the moonlight. “...Hm. We certainly won’t find answers here.” Then he was getting to his feet again and gathering his clothing, muttering to himself as he dressed. “Not waking Ichtaca...definitely not going to the Duality House, Mihm would flay us both once she stopped laughing...she absolutely _would_ laugh, Acatl, trust me.”

Acatl didn’t think so—he thought it far more likely she’d skip any sort of amusement and go straight to fury—but he didn’t bother trying to express that. Instead he focused his priest-senses past the blaze of Teomitl’s magic and the low-level underworld hum that had seeped into every crevice of his home, trying to pick up on any foreign influences. _Nothing...nothing...there!_ Flowing out the entrance curtain was the faintest hint of rose-red.

And then he realized Teomitl was about to leave without him. Baring his fangs, he raced after him; Teomitl stopped midstride, blinking, as he snapped his claws at his ankles. “You can’t think I’d accept this! We have to find a way to change you back into a man. God or sorcerer, whoever did this to you has to pay.”

 _Obviously! But_ you _can’t think you’re doing this alone, Teomitl!_ He wished fervently he was capable of making some sort of noise beyond clicking—even a snort would be acceptable—but settled for hopping onto Teomitl’s foot and raising his claws like a toddler demanding to be picked up. It was humiliating, but it was the only way he could think of to make himself understood.

Teomitl frowned at him. “I don’t think you could keep up, but I suppose you could...climb up on my shoulder? And I’ll put another cloak on over you to—to hide you. You are a _large_ scorpion, you know.”

He’d realized that. Teomitl knelt down, offering his hand after a noticeable moment of hesitation; when Acatl set his claws on his arm, he was struck by the warmth of his skin. Teomitl always ran hot, but it had never been quite as comforting as it was in that moment. He allowed himself an instant to bask, claws waving slowly, before clambering up to his lover’s shoulder. It took some very undignified scratching to settle his weight comfortably—scorpions were not meant to drape over anything—but once he had, he immediately felt much better about his change in elevation. It made him feel more human, seeing the world from a proper angle.

Teomitl set a hand on his carapace, and that helped too. He felt his lover’s shoulders shift as he took a slow breath. “Alright, then. Where to first? Maybe...maybe we should confess our sins—ow!”

Acatl released Teomitl’s ear from his claw, waving his tail in what he hoped was a suitably annoyed manner.

“But—“

He hopped off Teomitl’s shoulder and stabbed his tail in the dirt repeatedly, not letting up until it formed a recognizable dot for the number one. _The only confession we get in our lives, and you want to waste it on something like that?_

Teomitl stared at him. “You really _don’t_ think this is because of—Acatl, forgive me for stating the obvious but you’re a _giant scorpion._ Wouldn’t Tlazolteotl be able to...to fix that? So long as we—ah, never did it again? Which of course wouldn’t be _ideal,_ but...”

He was starting to really wish he’d been transformed into something with facial expressions.

“...Alright. We’re not going to Tlazolteotl, then. But—if not _her,_ then who…?” Teomitl trailed off, puffing out his cheeks thoughtfully. “What we do together—it isn’t Xochiquetzal’s domain.”

Indeed it wasn’t, and in any case he had no desire to stand in Xochiquetzal’s presence on two feet, never mind six. But rose-red, parrot-red, could belong to only a few deities, and if not her then they would have to go to her consort. He thought he knew vaguely where the temple of Xochipilli was from his doorstep; if his hunch was right, the thread of magic would lead them the rest of the way.

He scrambled back onto his new perch on his lover’s shoulder and jabbed his tail in the direction of the door. Teomitl pulled a second cloak on over them both, and they set off.

Neither of them noticed the dark blotch of something parrot-shaped taking off into the night ahead of them.

&

They followed the magic to a temple of Xochipilli just on the edge of the Sacred Precinct, rich enough for its priests to still be awake at what Acatl suspected was either very late at night or very early in the morning, but not quite rich enough for Teomitl’s hurried stride to attract too much attention. In daylight, it would probably be beautiful with its frescoes of flowers and birds; at night, it just made Acatl nervous. Xochipilli was the god of youth, games, and those whose tastes on the mat did _not_ run towards the begetting of children; Acatl had begun to think seriously of making a quiet sacrifice or two in His direction, but some lingering embarrassment had stayed his hand every time. He cursed himself for a coward and a fool, hunkering down next to his lover’s neck and feeling his pulse like it was his own. He wished they’d had enough time to formulate something like a plan. _Parrots. We should have brought parrots and—whichever flowers Xochipilli favors, gold and quetzal feathers and precious jade._ His skin was starting to itch, and he didn’t know if that was a sign of the transformation wearing off or something far worse. The magic in the air was tinting everything the color of blood, and what priests were in the courtyard were showing the whites of their eyes like dogs.

Teomitl had barely crossed the threshold when a priest in Xochipilli’s flower-bedecked cloak and headdress of parrot feathers approached them. Acatl tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, noting how ragged the man looked. He wasn’t old—a few years younger than Acatl himself, if he had to guess—but strain had sunken into his furrowed brow and fresh blood dripped from his earlobes. When Teomitl drew himself up, the man met his eyes with a twist to his expression that said his night couldn’t get any worse. “Zolin, Fire Priest of Xochipilli, at your service. What brings the Master of the House of Darts to our humble temple at this hour?”

They hadn’t expected to be recognized immediately; judging by the way Teomitl shifted, he hadn’t spent their trek through the Sacred Precinct thinking of an explanation. Acatl prayed that, just this once, he would discover the ability to lie. “Ah.”

“Well?” Zolin cast an impatient glance behind him to the top of the temple, where the central chamber had been lit with torches even at this late hour. “I don’t mean to pressure you, my lord, but we are somewhat...busy at the moment. If you’re looking for the god’s favor in winning a ball game—or for relationship advice, our god is not a god of judgement and I assure you we have seen _everything_ —please come back at dawn.”

Teomitl swallowed. “It’s not that. It’s…” He trailed off, staring at his feet for a moment in which Acatl felt his temperature rise before he finally met Zolin’s eyes. “My lover is under what we believe is a curse, and I— _we_ came here hoping the Flower Prince would—“

 _That_ got Zolin’s attention. His gaze sharpened, focusing on the huddled lump of Acatl under Teomitl’s cloak. “Most men would go to a sorcerer for that. A nobleman like _you_ should go to the priests for the Dead. What sort of curse do you mean? If it’s the one with the boils, there’s a poultice for that.”

_Oh, Duality preserve us. He’s going for the truth._

After so long laying between Teomitl’s furnace heat and a well-made cotton cloak, the night air was almost a shock when he was exposed. Zolin, to his great credit, only looked mildly revolted. “...Well. And here I thought that was something they made up to keep us all chaste in calmecac. It certainly explains what we’ve had to deal with here.”

“Oh?” Teomitl sounded as though he was half dreading the answer, but Acatl knew he had to be picking up on the anxious excitement in the air as well.

Zolin took in a long breath and let it out in a sigh. “You are in luck, my lords. Tonight we have the _very great honor_ of paying host to the Flower Prince in person, for He has deigned to appear in the flesh of our high priest. He has been in _high_ good humor for the past several hours, and may be inclined to offer a boon.”

Teomitl didn’t flinch. Acatl could feel the rock-solid stiffness of his muscles and knew just how much he wasn’t flinching; if he’d been in his proper shape, his own spine would be rigid with nerves. Throwing yourselves on the mercy of an unfamiliar priesthood was one thing; walking into a god’s realm with preparation and sacrifice was another. But to have the god unexpectedly appear in the flesh—and Xochipilli was known to be capricious—was enough to turn even the strongest man’s bones to water. The single meeting he’d had with the Flower Prince’s high priest gave him no reassurance now. He rubbed the side of his claw against Teomitl’s neck, the only sort of comfort he could give.

Zolin led them up the temple steps. As before, the other priests of Xochipilli scurried out of the way as they passed, but now Acatl knew why. The closer they got to the central chamber, the warmer the air got and the fiercer their blood pounded; by the time they neared the top, Teomitl was staggering like a drunkard and panting as he fought to control his limbs. Acatl nearly fell off his shoulder twice, legs spasming; the effects of Xochipilli’s presence were lessened in this body, but his mind had no such restraints. When they reached the top, he let himself drop off and scuttled along by Teomitl’s side.

Xochipilli waited for them inside, lounging on a bloodstained altar like a throne. The high priest whose body he was borrowing was a middle-aged man of average height, but Acatl could barely see him through the haze of his god’s power. There was gold on His hands and feet, and feathers had been shaped into brilliant bands for His upper arms. More feathers hemmed His cloak and parrot-shaped headdress; His face, beaming at the world from within the headdress’s beak, had been brightly painted with butterflies. The incense was thick enough to obscure the finer details of His form, and Acatl was glad he was so low to the ground. He knew it had to be drugged, and prayed that Teomitl could handle it.

The god was eating popcorn. As Teomitl entered and knelt, averting his gaze, He put the bowl down and laughed. It was a rich, thrilling sound, and Teomitl almost whimpered as He spoke. “I would have privacy. Leave us, all of you.” The priests attending Him did not precisely run, but Acatl had to wedge himself against Teomitl’s calf to avoid being stepped on.

And then they were alone—though Acatl was _sure_ there was at least one priest eavesdropping on the steps outside—and Xochipilli was grinning at them with teeth like a jaguar’s. “Well now, and who might _you_ be?”

Teomitl swallowed hard, and one hand drifted over Acatl’s back. “...Teomitl, my lord.”

Xochipilli cocked His head like a bird. “Aren’t you the Master of the House of Darts?” At Teomitl’s nod, He let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, you’re Jade Skirt’s boy! She’ll be _terribly_ pleased, I’m sure. Whatever brings you here, pretty little thing? And with such an...interesting pet?” Now His face bore an unmistakable leer.

 _He could rummage through our minds at any time, but he already knows. He knows and he wants to hear Teomitl say it._ Irritation cut through the warm haze in Acatl’s mind, only for it to flood back in at the next breath. There was no point in bringing such a petty emotion as mortal anger before a god, after all.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t remind Teomitl of that. “He’s not a _pet,”_ his lover snarled. “He is Acatl-tzin, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli.” Though even he wasn’t bold or suicidal enough to look Xochipilli in the face, he was nevertheless glaring viciously somewhere around the god’s knees. Acatl fought the urge to bury his face in his claws.

“He’s—“ Xochipilli flung His head back with a whoop, slapping His knee. It upset the bowl of popcorn, sending puffy kernels tumbling across the floor while He cackled. It went on for so long that He started to wheeze, clutching His stomach in pain as He visibly fought for air. “Oh...oh, I needed that. Does he have blood? Was he warm in your arms? Or did he just lay there like one of his corpses? Don’t be shy, don’t be shy! Tell Me _everything.”_ He leaned forward eagerly, hands on His knees like a spectator at a ball game.

Acatl prayed that Teomitl would keep his temper. The Duality must have heard him; though Teomitl’s fists were clenched and his face flushed with fury as well as shame, his voice remained admirably steady. “We...were intimate, yes, for the first time—“

Xochipilli cut him off with a delighted cackle, clapping his hands. “You _deflowered_ Lord Death’s High Priest! What a conquest, little warrior! Oh, oh, the Hummingbird will be so proud of you when I tell Him. Was it any good?”

“It was _perfect,”_ Teomitl bit out. “But then I woke—and he was like _this._ We have come to throw ourselves on Your mercy, My Lord, and beg that you might know a way to restore him to—to his proper shape. _Please.”_

“...Hmmm.” The silence stretched on just long enough to be uncomfortable, and then Xochipilli shifted on His altar with a clatter of jewelry. “Restoring him _is_ well within my power, but...ah, you ask a great favor, Teomitl.” His tongue caressed the sounds of his name in a way that made a sick, hot surge of jealousy curl low in Acatl’s gut. “What will you give me? Hymns? Sacrifice? Yourself? Will you sheathe the walls of My temples in gold? Why should I bother with men who do not worship Me?”

Teomitl closed his eyes. For a long moment, he was silent; when he spoke, his voice was as firm as any Revered Speaker’s proclamation. “You shall have my worship, my lord, and my faith. I will give you the blood of parrots, the hearts of eagles, and I will lay gold at your feet because—because I love him, my lord, more than I thought I ever could love anyone. He is the best man in the Empire, the star that guides my way in the night, and if I have been remiss in my gratitude towards You it’s only because sometimes I...I still cannot believe he loves me back.”

He flashed Acatl a brief, wry smile, but Acatl barely noticed. He knew Teomitl loved him—the man was hardly shy about showing it, tugging him aside in the street or draping over him in courtyards to whisper things so soft and gentle that they made him melt—but it was one thing to know he was loved and another for it to be proclaimed fearlessly to the Flower Prince Himself. If scorpions could blush, he knew he’d be crimson. _The best man in the Empire? Me? And_ he _cannot believe—Duality, when I am a man again I’m going to show him just how I feel._

Xochipilli sat back on His seat, clearly making a show of considering the matter. “...Oh. You are in _love._ Fine, then, you may have him back.” He waved a hand.

Acatl’s world was consumed by darkness and pain. It spread through his veins and over his skin like fire, separating him from all awareness of his own limbs with the same unerring precision of a sacrificial knife. He thought he was probably screaming inside his own head, but he couldn’t hear anything over the rush of his own blood and Teomitl’s panicked cry. Just when he thought he really wasn’t going to survive this—that this would be how he would die, on the floor of Xochipilli’s temple—it stopped.

For the span of a heartbeat, he couldn’t feel _anything._

Awareness filtered in slowly.

“Acatl? Acatl! Say something—Acatl, please—“

He was alive, and the stone floor was freezing on his soft skin. He had an entirely normal compliment of human limbs; every inch of skin tingled with returned bloodflow, but he flexed carefully and felt the response of fingers and toes with relief. Breath filled his lungs with the scent of incense and stirred the hair that had fallen in his face. When he blinked—he could blink! He was never going to take having eyelids for granted again!—his vision started to clear, and he registered that Teomitl was hovering over him with a hand outstretched as though he was afraid to touch him.

He was also naked, but that somehow didn’t seem as important. “Mrgh.”

“Oh—“ When he tried to sit up, Teomitl sprang into action. His hands on Acatl’s arms were a relief, and then he wrapped the spare cloak around him and Acatl collapsed, boneless with the exhausted memory of agony, into his arms. Teomitl held him tightly enough to hurt, burying his face in his hair. Finally—with a faint tremor in his voice—he asked, “How are you feeling?”

He nodded before realizing that Teomitl would probably want words. It took two tries before he could produce any; his tongue felt foreign in his mouth, and the incense was starting to make his head swim. Finally he managed a rough “I’ve been better.” _But I’m here. Alive. A man again, with a man’s proper form, and Teomitl’s arms around me. Nothing else matters._

Xochipilli tapped His fingers on the altar, sounding deeply smug. “See? Safe and sound.”

He sucked in a breath, coughed as the smoke stung his throat, and croaked out, “Thank you, my lord. I...do you know what caused my...transformation? I would avoid it happening again.”

The Flower Prince smirked, an expression that reminded Acatl unpleasantly of Quenami at his most self-satisfied. “You need not fear _that_. It was a wager with the Old Coyote, which I’m pleased to report you two have won for Me. Treat him well, Ahuizotl, and remember the old gods as well as the Hummingbird when you are Revered Speaker. Oh—and try to avoid Xochiquetzal. She might take this personally.”

Acatl couldn’t breathe. _A bet? I spent two hours transformed into a godsdamned scorpion for a bet?!_ He’d faced down Tlaloc in His own realm, but he’d never before felt a seething desire to punch a god in the face. Only the knowledge that it would be both disrespectful and a means of certain suicide kept his fists from clenching, though the grip he had on his own cloak trembled. “...I see.”

“I—I will, my lord.” Teomitl kept his head bowed, but Acatl knew by the twisting of his mouth that he’d come to the same conclusion.

Xochipilli released His high priest like a child dropping a worn-out toy. Acatl watched as the godhood faded, the haze around the man dissipating to reveal graying hair and bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes in a face that had probably been handsome enough twenty years ago. He pulled off his headdress, shook out his blood-matted hair, and fixed them both with a tired smile. “You two both deserved a better night than what you got. I will have someone bring you a loincloth, Acatl-tzin, and some maize cakes. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

As the man spoke, Acatl realized he _was_ hungry—and had the oddest craving for roasted grasshoppers, which he was _not_ going to mention. “Thank you.” He still couldn’t remember the other priest’s name, but it was entirely too late to ask.

He certainly couldn’t fault the temple for its efficiency. It was the work of minutes for one of the definitely-eavesdropping priests outside to fetch him a loincloth, and the high priest himself brought them chocolate along with the maize cakes.

He also brought an apology, which Teomitl waved off. “It was hardly _your_ fault, Nemalhuilli-tzin.”

 _That’s right. It was Huehuecoyotl’s and Xochipilli’s fault. Because apparently it_ amused _them._ Acatl concentrated on his chocolate, which had more vanilla than he liked but was delicious nonetheless, and tried very hard not to think about the gods using such a personal part of his life for their own enjoyment. It was embarrassing enough when he remembered _Mihmatini_ knew about it, and now it was a topic of divine gossip. At least it wouldn’t reach Tizoc’s ears if the priesthood of Xochipilli had their way; he’d already seen a small but fervent whisper circle in the temple courtyard break up at Nemalhuilli’s glare. Their consensus seemed to be that Teomitl was a very lucky man, which was just absurd.

He and Teomitl wound up sitting on the temple steps, moonlight turning the world silver and making his lover’s hair gleam. Teomitl picked at his maize cake, and Acatl wondered what he was thinking. For his part, he only hoped he would be able to make it home before collapsing.

Finally Teomitl broke the silence between them. “What now?”

“...Now?” He didn’t need to think about it. He’d had plans and desires at sunset that were still burning, unfulfilled, in his mind. He could still feel Teomitl’s hands on him. But he remembered Teomitl’s horror at his transformation, his fear that it might not be reversed, and it stopped his voice in his throat for a moment. _No. For the rest of the night, let me just hold him._ “I think...we should go back to my house. Don’t you?”

Teomitl bit his lip, dropping his gaze to his sandals. “Acatl...Acatl-tzin, I…”

The maize cake he’d devoured felt like a stone in his stomach. “You don’t want to.”

“I do!” Teomitl’s face was still turned away, hands clasped unhappily together in his lap. “But—the gods have taken notice of what we have, Acatl, and I understand if you don’t want to...repeat the experience, given how it ended. I surely wouldn’t blame you.”

 _What._ For a moment, all he could do was stare incredulously at his lover as the words filtered through his brain. “Teomitl. I intend to _repeat the experience,_ as you put it, as many times as you’ll have me. Did you not hear the Flower Prince himself grant us His blessing?”

Teomitl’s head snapped up like a dog on the alert, eyes wide. Even in the moonlight, it was clear he was turning crimson. _“Oh._ Is that—you’re _sure,_ then?”

He reached out and covered Teomitl’s hand with his own, stroking it until his tense grip relaxed. When Teomitl favored him with a sweet smile and gave his fingers a squeeze, he found himself smiling back. _If I’m the stars for you, then you are the sun in my sky._ “As sure as I’ve ever been of anything in my life. Take me home. When dawn breaks, I want to greet it in your arms.”

Teomitl took him home.

& &

The house in Tenochtitlan was not expecting visitors, but the young man who ambled up to its entrance-curtain, whistling a jaunty tune in the dawn mist, didn’t care about such things. He had much more important things to do. The richly dressed slave on duty, normally quick to bar unwelcome visitors, took one look at him and made himself scarce.

Bells chimed on the curtain and on his ankles as the young man entered, beaming at the older woman eating a leisurely meal of grilled frog and peppers on her dais. Unaffected by her icy glare, he sketched a mockingly elaborate bow. “Xochiquetzal, my darling!”

She’d been as beautiful as he was, once, but that had been a very, very long time ago. Now she swallowed, narrowed her red-rimmed eyes, and told him, “Leave.”

His grin took on a vicious edge. If she’d been a mortal, it would have stricken fear into her heart. “Ah, but I think you’ll love to hear this. You recall the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli?”

She could hardly forget him. Not many men turned her down, and even fewer went on to thwart her carefully-laid plans. Still, she couldn’t imagine how he’d attracted her consort’s attention. “...That cold fish? What has _he_ done?”

The young man’s grin grew even wider. “The Master of the House of Darts. Or perhaps Jade Skirt’s boy has done _him;_ they were regrettably close-mouthed on the details.”

He strolled out just as the screaming started, a thrown plate whizzing harmlessly past his head.

**Author's Note:**

> things which DEFINITELY happened after this:
> 
> 1) acamapichtli walked past acatl, said "congratulations" and left before acatl's head could explode. acatl later got a Congrats On The Sex fruit basket from an unknown source and nearly threw it at a wall.
> 
> 2) xochipilli's clergy debated teocatl for DAYS. there were multiple arguments over who was luckier. ("eh, he could do better" "THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS AND YOU SAY HE COULD DO *BETTER?!*" "look, i would let acatl-tzin do *unspeakable* things to me--") zolin and nemalhuilli stay well out of it but also ship it hard.
> 
> 3) acatl & teomitl wound up going another round that left acatl in such a cheerful mood it freaked out his priests. "he's smiling! i didn't know his face could do that!"
> 
> also: it would be WILDLY anachronistic but in my head, xochipilli is wearing solid gold shutter shades and you all have to live with that mental image.
> 
> wanna yell about obsblood with me? (please yell about obsblood with me i am Feral) find me on [tumblr](https://notapaladin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/ship_to_hell/)
> 
> ps: please....commente.......


End file.
